


Collar around your neck

by CravenWyvern



Series: DS Extras [28]
Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Dehumanization, Old(ish) Writing, Slavery, Walrus Culture, headcanons galore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-27
Updated: 2018-09-27
Packaged: 2019-07-18 06:00:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16112306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CravenWyvern/pseuds/CravenWyvern
Summary: Remember when i thought about the MacTusks a lot?Yeah, i sure don't.





	Collar around your neck

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently it's been a little more than a year since i wrote this and decided that i was too embarrassed to post it.
> 
> Its one of the few stories ive written thats made me feel uncomfortable at times so.
> 
> Yeah....

It took a moment, blinking out into the grey shadows and dark hue of early morning, the light from the windows just barely giving enough light to see by. His hands curled into the fur blanket he had wrapped about him, shifting himself and sinking into the warm bushy fur, slowly exhaling a deep breath and letting his eyes slide shut once more.

And then a shiver went up his spine,  
a sudden sore grind in between his joints, his hands aching from the cold even with the leather gloves on. 

Maxwell gritted his teeth, brow furrowing as he tried for a moment to ignore the discomfort, to sink back into sleep and soft warm comfort, the blanket almost covering him completely, silver furs against his chin and cheeks, brushing up against his long nose. 

It was cold, not quite warmed up with his meagre body heat, but at least it didn't stink.

That damn creature wouldn't allow such a thing in the house if it got messy.

With that thought in mind Maxwell grinded his teeth together, pushing his back against the wooden wall behind him and trying to huddle even more under the blanket. His gut turned and soured, already ruining his morning with just a few thoughts, and a part of him was squirming and writhing in indignation and shrouded shame, making him hide his face in the blanket and bury his nose in the fur lining.

Charlie was laughing at him, he was sure.

That sent a shudder up his spine, the very thought of her, of all people, watching him from the glass windows of this place, watching him get toted along and shown off as he was, watching and laughing at the has been Shadow Kings new, torturous fate.

Well, it wasn't as if it could get worse, not now anyway. That scientist has seen him as well, both here for the same reason, but under differing rule.

The curling shame rose in his throat, tightening his jaw and pressing his tongue to the roof of his mouth, and freeing one hand from the fur lined coat Maxwell almost hesitantly reached to his neck, his gloves cold and stiff as he lightly brushed the collar.

Higgsbury had a leather one, rope knotted at his wrists and a trailing line for the walrus child to tug him about from. He, former King of this world, former ruler and controller and tyrant and everything else that came with that power, had an icy gold collar set on his neck.

Just touching it made him feel ill, the recent bout of “conversation” between him and Higgsbury at the forefront of his mind, and with that Maxwell quickly bundled up the blanket and buried his face into the fur, breathing slow and deeply, ignoring the cold as it settled into his bones.

He didn't want to think about it.

He didn't want to think about it.

He didn't want to think about it.

But unfortunately that imbecile had to have shown up like he did and said what he said and caused such a ruckus from just a few words.

Maxwell had it under control, had it sorted out. Of course he did, he was no idiot, he was an opportunist, and unlike Higgsbury he saw the value of staying right here, in this godforsaken house.

Godforsaken, ha. This world had no god besides the one on the Throne, and he had once been seated there.

And he obviously had not forsaken this place.

Maxwell shivered, clutching at the blanket like it was a lifeline, the bare wooden wall behind him solid and cold against his boney spine even with the padding of the blanket. The only good thing out of this morning was at least he hadn't slept on bare flooring.

Which was just another slush of hot shame, his bare feet covered by the blanket but not warmed by it, skin prickling with goosebumps. The bedding under him was just that; not threadbare, but worn unused bedding bundled into a small pillow of a bed.

It reminded him strongly of a dogs bed, and that just made him want to curl up into nothing, encased in a shell of pitiful shame and embarrassment.

He didn't want to think about it.

Maxwell curled his lip, teeth bared and eyes shut tight, trembling from the freezing cold that permeated the wooden cabin in the early morning. His stomach flipped and he felt a little ill, the cold metal band around his neck burning.

He didn't want to think about it.

He wouldn't think about it.

Maxwell suddenly pushed himself up, using the wall behind him to stand as his knees locked and ached from the cold, blanket hanging from his shoulders and bedding under him still slightly warmed from his earlier sleep. He trembled, a little off balance from standing so quickly, a rush of blood behind his eyes, and then he shook it off, took the blankets fur lined edges in his hands and tightened it around his shoulders, just barely brushing the wooden flooring.

After a moment of shivering and biting at his lower lip, eyes still shut tight and still fighting the urge to panic, to breakdown, the faint edges of reality, of what was happening to him seeping in slowly, Maxwell shuddered in a cold breath and exhaled deeply, the fog of the cold slipping out of his mouth as he opened his eyes.

As always it was bleary, blinking and trying in vain to focus his vision before leaving it be, knowing he'd have to be lucky to get a hold of his glasses in this place. There were no mass survivor graveyards here, not in this icy landscape, and the dead were sent out to sink into the depths of the ocean, the creatures living there feeding on generations upon generations of the natives.

He's been to a few of those ceremonies, a privilege almost besides the leash trailing ahead of him, clipped to the gold wrapped about his neck. If he just focused, looked away from the creature leading him along, ignored the stares of curiosity and envy from the other attendees, then he could almost imagine that he was here of his own free will.

Or, more specifically, was here purposefully from the beginning, wanted this in the very beginning. It has taken years to reach the point of apathy and understanding for him to not fall apart at the seams everytime he remembered his imprisonment, the level that he had fallen to.

But that fragile ignorance and acceptance had started to crack under Higgsburys prodding questions, had threatened to shatter, and Maxwell did not know what was to be done when he finally broke under the strain.

_Put down,_ he thought blankly, _euthanized_ , and that sent such a hard shudder of revulsion and fear and heady shame into his gut that he slumped against the wall, tugging the blanket around him even tighter, shuddering from both the cold and his own whirling emotions and breathing deeply, almost desperately.

He didn't want to think about it.

Maxwell drew in a hissing breath, straightening up as his face hardened and he bared his teeth at nothing, fought against his own inner turmoil, the warmth of the blanket fading.

He didn't want to think about it.

He drew the blanket about himself and took a step off of the bedding, then another, and another, and another. The cold of the floorboards bit into his feet, toes already numb, but he pushed forward through the pins and needles, away from the room he was settled in and it's empty fireplace.

The narrow halls were even colder, each breath from him puffing condensed air into visibility for a few seconds, the ceiling dwarfing him as he ignored it and the cluttered desk and hanging pictures, eyes only on the stairs ahead.

Climbing up them was easier thought of than done, his shivering fitful and joints throbbing with dulled pain, the cold sinking itself into him bit by bit. By the time he had lugged himself to the top of the flight, leaning a little heavily on the makeshift handrail and hissing in freezing air between his bared teeth, his feet were practically numb and his joints protested with every movement. The blanket did little to combat the cold of early morning even with him wrapped tightly in it, hands clawed stiffly into its fur lining, but Maxwell just huffed a steaming breath of air and, after a moment's rest against the wooden railing, the older man straightened up.

He may have lost every shred of dignity he had ever owned by now, but that didn't mean he was going to present himself in such a worn out way to the cabins owner. 

Ignoring the fact that he's had his moments already with that damn beast, Maxwell made his way down one last hall, this one thankfully carpeted and less cluttered.

Not warm, but he could deal with that.

Maxwell stopped, swayed and shivered as he stared at the wooden door between him and the thing that had put this collar around his neck. He rose a hand to touch it for a moment, grimacing at the engravings and jewel insets, face drawn at the flush of hateful emotion in him at its presence.

The worst part of it was that he actually quite liked it.

...He didn't want to think about it.

Maxwell knocked on the door, a short rap with his gloved fist, and then he hid his hands in the blanket, cradling them together as he waited for a response, trying to message warmth into them through the gloves.

A moment later, not too long at all, there was a springing of noise, a shifting of weight on a bed, and then a huff of sound. Almost a growl, a bark, and Maxwell waited another moment before pushing open the door, its lack of a handle making it swing open with ease.

Creatures that did not have flexible hands had no use for locks or door knobs, only springs and door stops and latches.

The MacTusk inside blinked at him from its massive bed, whiskers drawn up and glasses already set upon its face, a thick book at its side, and Maxwell was able to hold its gaze for only a moment before looking away with a grimace.

The walrus like creature was massive, taller and heavier set than him in every way, it's more animal physical traits bluntly obvious, and it sat in its huge bed, a quilted comforter covering its short, stocky flipper like legs, looking down its snout at him through the thick rimmed glasses it owned. It fit in the bedding with ease, enough space around it still, not at all looking squashed or uncomfortable with its larger bed frame.

He didn't even know if it needed the glasses or not. It was a walrus, it should have no need for glasses, nor monocles, but it seemed that this world he had built upon and helped create just kept changing and growing in ways he had no say in. It made him quite unhappy, realizing his world wasn't his anymore.

It was incredibly obvious in how it wasn't his most times, especially now, with this gold around his neck. He wasn't an owner anymore, not of this world.

It huffed at him again, still giving him a searching look, beady bulging eyes blinking slowly as it watched him, and Maxwell sucked in a deep breath between his teeth and straightened his shoulders, locked himself into standing taller, no matter how cold he was and how much he was shivering, tremors in his limbs and up and down his back.

“It's rather cold, downstairs.”

There was no reason for him to talk, to vocalize at all. These creatures could not understand him, and neither him with their language.

Once, upon a seat of power, taking what was already available in this icy plane and constructing from there, he had known their words, had even chanced upon speaking in their own tongue at times. It wasn't friendship, but company nonetheless, and the MacTusky tribe grew and prospered under his favor.

But now, powerless and forgetful, he had disregarded their words long ago, thought such savage language to be below him. 

Such thoughts have turned on him, very drastically, and now he was just another odd creature from the mainland, some exotic critter brought caged aboard a walrus ship to be sold to the highest bidder.

He supposed that he should be grateful that his head had not been mounted above a fireplace, or that he was not served in a stew with all the other foreign foods of the Constant in some festival. Pig was a rarity and well sought after, but human apparently was expensive and held in very high regard.

It was, of course, hard to catch and hard to handle and even harder to serve. Humans were hardy creatures, survival instinctive, and crafty. He's seen enough, watched enough, of pawns cleverly dragging hunting parties into traps and the paths of other monsters, the hunter becoming the hunted.

Maxwell was not one of those pawns. The encounters before this one were of his death, not quite able to escape the darts and howling hounds, the merciful slit throat as the walrus hunters prepared to butcher his corpse.

He should be glad this time hadn't been a hunt for sport or food.

A part of him wasn't, and years have passed and yet still he couldn't be grateful.

He didn't want to think about it.

The walrus huffed, whiskers moving with its lips as it gurgled in its deep voice, a flipper raising up to adjust its glasses as it spoke to him.

For all he knew, it was speaking like one would speak to a dog or cat, an animal spooked by something outside of its control. Like how he'd speak to his hounds when on the Throne, and how he'd speak to pups and varglings when off of it, handling the creatures with care as they aged and grew, eventually trotting off to live on their own.

He didn't think he'd be released anytime soon however, not with how obviously older he was now. And, even though he hated and sickened at the thought, he wouldn't want to leave anyway.

He reached up to touch his collar again, fingers fiddling with the jewels and dips and curves of the gold, and the walrus caught his attention with a short growl of sound, pursing its lips as he yanked his hand away and drew his shoulders up, hunching himself in his cold blanket.

He hadn't flinched. Maxwell would never flinch at such a thing, at such a rebuke. 

It didn't like when he fiddled with the collar.

It brought to mind thoughts of hounds itching and clawing and trying to wiggle out of their collars, ripping themselves bloody just to free their necks. The creature should know by now that he wouldn't damage himself in that way, had long ago stopped trying to get it off of him, uncomfortable by the feeling of confinement against his throat that had now become the norm.

It should know by now of the only place he had scars and wounds. It had, after all, been the one to hold his wrists and calm him down with its walrus sounds, almost coos as it lulled him back from trying to get away.

For all he knew, he would not come back to the Constants mainland after death. This was another plane, and he may just wake up out here, alone in frozen wastes and biting ice blizzards, to die in solitude and the cold.

“Getting away” from this specific cabin, this village of native walrus tribes, MacTusk and otherwise, could give him something worse than a death sentence. An undeath sentence, specifically.

The walrus grumbled, shifting in its bedding before slapping a flipper onto the covers, a soft whistle of noise from its pursed lips, and it looked at him before indicating its head to the space on its overlarge bed. Most walrus beds were small, enough for one of them, but the status of this one gave it special rights.

Rights like having a luxuriously large bed and social status, respect among the other natives, the handling of pedigree ice hounds and vast wealth.

Rights like keeping him.

Maxwell steeled himself for a moment, jaw grit tight at the discomfort in his chest, before heaving a sigh and slouching under his blanket, shuffling over carpet to the bed. He hung his head, and usually he'd not be feeling this way, usually he'd take to this with ease.

It's been a few years, he should be used to this by now.

But his latest encounter with another human, Higgsbury of all people, had shaken him. Not out of it, mind, but shaken this fragile stability he had created with this walrus in particular, shaken whatever terms he had finally gotten to accept but was now reconsidering.

It huffed at him, watched him eye the bedding, waited patiently like it always did.

It was always patient with him. He's seen it work with the ice hounds, work with shaggy winter furred koalafants and even pengulls. It was firm, almost harsh, expected the animals obedience, expected its orders to be followed without complaint. If there was an issue the creatures were punished, not unjustly but in a way that showed who was in control and who should be listened to.

The hounds heeded the walrus’s whistles, the single koalafant on the property shook its huge ears and let a saddle be placed upon its back, the pengull flock laid their eggs in their housings and were passive.

Then again, he had no uses like those beasts. Hounds hunted, koalafants raced and were ridden, pengulls laid eggs and molted feathers. 

The words of Higgsbury rang in his ears, made him stiffen and look to the floor, not wanting to see the creature that kept him here, that had clasped this gold collar around his throat and had a gold chain lead to walk him about in front of others.

_“You're just a glorified pet, aren't you?”_

He didn't want to think about it.

Maxwell never wanted to think about it.

With that he heaved out the breath of air he had been holding in his chest and climbed up the bed without a second thought, teeth gritted as he fought to keep his mind blank.

He didn't want to think about it.

Maxwell curled up, on his side and facing away from the walrus, facing away from its soft huffing and puffing voice, the blanket bundled up around him and fur lining against his face and under his nose, taking deep, stuttering breaths. He could feel the walrus’s flippered feet next to him under its own comforter, the warmth of just being close already better than the cold of before, and he squeezed shut his eyes and curled his legs closer, shivering quietly.

He didn't want to think about this, about being curled up and laying at the feet of the walrus that now “owned” him, that has “owned” him for years. He's been here for so long now, not enough to rival the time of the Throne, or the Constants train of continual rebirth, but enough for him to remember. To remember and know, know that this has been the best years of his life ever since he took that shadow by its taloned hands and tugged its book to his chest in possessive, hopeful confidence.

He has never felt as safe as he has felt these last few years, has never felt so relaxed and content.

A flipper softly laid on his head, made him flinch down and bury his face into the blankets fur, his shivers slowing down as his own body heat warmed his blanket, merged with the closeness of the walrus and its massive size. After a moment there was another growl of sound, a huff of air and the flipper patted him, went down his head and to his back, covered by the blanket but still feeling it touch him. The walrus warbled in its own language, almost cooing sound, and still it continued to pet him, slow and careful when going through his thinning hair as to not hook its flimsy claws or cause him any discomfort.

Even though he fought it, hissing in breath and fighting the thoughts, the blearing and wetness of his eyes, of the burning in his gut, of the curling shame in his chest, Maxwell found himself relaxing under the ministrations, breath evening out as he relaxed. His limbs were cold still, just not as painfully, and the petting continued on even as he heard the rustle of paper and a quiet huffing of a sigh. The walrus had returned back to its book, but still pet him, a soft, rhythmic comfort over his spine.

_“This is absolutely degrading Maxwell, how can you stand for this!?”_

Maxwell let out a heavy, strained sigh, finally pulling the blanket away from his face so that he could breath the icy air freely, eyes still closed but not as tightly, not as desperately.

He was too tired to care. His limbs ached and, as the days stretched in the company of safe, comforting walruses, he slept more and more. The cold of this place wasn't leaving him as completely as it should, not after living here so long, his age catching up to him as his wrinkles spread and dragged on him, as he hollowed out and grew thinner, bonier, more and more fragile, more absent minded.

He's never lived this long, and Maxwell couldn't just turn his back on that. He couldn't throw away this gift horse, no matter its failings.

He's fallen from grace a long while back, and he had nothing to prove to Higgsbury, to a pawn who cared nothing for him.

Here, in this cabin, his shivers evening out and heaving out a calmer, slower sigh, untensing and instead letting himself limply soak up the warmth around him, radiating off of the hulking walrus, here he had something.

Even if it was something as whimsical as petting and cooing and the degradation of his humanity and freedom, even if it was as simple as a few acts of affection and care every so often, he couldn't deny it all.

Maxwell couldn't deny himself this.

**Author's Note:**

> i think of weird things and end up posting them a long time afterwards in the dead of night and im vry sorry
> 
> Listen sometimes u just have to write weird things and sometimes u wonder if other people might like weird things but u know they probably wont but sometimes...
> 
> U just gotta post a weird story that makes everyone uncomfortable.


End file.
